Chapter 11 Ethan
Ethan
The storm doesn’t creep in.
It hits.
One second the sky hangs heavy and gray—
the next it splits open.
Thunder rolls low through the trees, deep enough to feel in my chest. Rain follows fast, slamming through the canopy, turning everything slick and loud.
I move along the perimeter, boots sinking into wet ground, eyes tracking the tree line as visibility drops to nothing.
Rain distorts everything.
Sound dies.
Good cover.
Bad defense.
They’ll use it.
I would.
Lightning flashes—white-hot and blinding—cutting the forest into sharp edges for half a second.
No movement.
No shadows breaking wrong.
Doesn’t mean we’re clear.
Just means they’re waiting.
Or already in position.
I circle back, slipping inside and shutting the door behind me. The storm dulls to a muffled roar.
Inside feels different now.
Tighter.
Darker.
Warmer.
Ava hasn’t moved far.
Still kneeling beside Petrov, hands steady, sleeves soaked through with blood that’s not hers—
Not all of it.
My gaze sharpens.
“Status?”
“He’s holding,” she says without looking up, fingers pressing, adjusting. “For now.”
For now.
Yeah.
“But he needs surgery,” she adds. “Soon.”
No surprise there.
“And you?”
That gets her attention.
She glances up. “I’m fine.”
There it is.
Again.
I step closer.
Close enough to see the slight shift in her posture. The way her hand presses just a little too firmly against her side. The way her breathing changes when she thinks I’m not watching.
The dark stain spreading beneath her jacket doesn’t help.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is when we don’t have options.”
Same tone.
Same deflection.
Not happening.
“Take it off.”
Her eyes flash. “No.”
“Ava—”
“I said no.”
I take another step.
Now we’re not talking about the wound.
Not really.
“You pass out,” I say quietly, “we both die.”
That lands.
I see it in the way her jaw tightens, in the slight pause before she exhales.
Slow.
Controlled.
“Fine.”
She shrugs out of the jacket, movements careful—too careful.
Yeah.
Worse than she’s saying.
I step in.
Close.
Closer than we’ve been in a long time.
Don’t think about that.
Focus.
“Hold still.”
“I am still.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You knew that already.”
Yeah.
I did.
My fingers press lightly against her side, testing the wound.
She inhales—
sharp.
Not just pain.
Not entirely.
I don’t react.
Even though I feel it.
“Through and through?” I ask.
“No. Grazed.”
Her voice is steady.
Too steady.
“Mostly.”
I don’t like that word.
I clean it, working carefully. Rain pounds harder against the roof, thunder cracking overhead, but inside—
everything narrows.
Just this.
Her.
My hands.
Her breath shifts when I get too close.
My jaw tightens as I wrap the bandage.
“Still hate flying?” I ask quietly.
Her lips twitch.
“Still think you’re funny?”
“No.”
That earns something real.
Small.
But real.
Thunder cracks again—louder, closer—shaking the walls.
The storm’s right on top of us now.
And with it—
reality settles in.
“We’re not moving tonight,” she says.
I secure the wrap, tightening just enough.
“No.”
“They’ll be out there.”
“Yeah.”
“Waiting.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“So we’re trapped.”
I hold her gaze.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
Not empty.
Heavy.
The kind that builds.
I should step back.
Give her space.
Reset.
I don’t.
Neither does she.
“Just like before,” she says softly.
That lands hard.
My jaw tightens.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” she murmurs. “It’s worse.”
Because now we know.
Now we remember.
Her hand shifts—
resting lightly against my arm.
Not pulling away.
Not accidental.
Just… there.
My pulse kicks hard.
Eight years doesn’t erase that.
Nothing does.
“You remember everything?” I ask.
Her fingers tighten just slightly.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Her gaze meets mine.
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I study her.
The walls are still there.
But thinner.
Cracking.
“Six months,” I say.
She nods.
“Six months.”
“And you didn’t come back.”
Her breath stutters.
There it is.
“I couldn’t.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I didn’t want you dead.”
That—
stops me cold.
Everything stills between us.
“You don’t get to make that call,” I say quietly.
Her voice doesn’t rise.
“I already did.”
Yeah.
She did.
And I paid for it.
I don’t say it.
Don’t have to.
She sees it anyway.
Her hand slides—
from my arm—
to my wrist.
Slower this time.
Intentional.
My pulse jumps under her fingers.
“Ava…”
I don’t know if it’s a warning or a plea.
The air feels too thin.
Too tight.
“With everything going on,” she says softly, “you’d think this would be easier.”
“It should be.”
“It’s not.”
No.
It’s not.
Because she’s standing right in front of me like I didn’t spend eight years trying to forget what it felt like to have her this close.
Her eyes drop—
just for a second—
to my mouth.
That’s all it takes.
Something pulls tight in my chest.
“You keep doing that,” I say.
Her brows draw together. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
She exhales slowly.
“Like what?”
Like I still matter.
Like we didn’t break.
Like you remember everything I’ve been trying not to.
I step closer.
Now there’s no space left.
“If you don’t know,” I say quietly, “I’m not explaining it.”
Her breath catches.
Barely.
But I feel it.
She doesn’t move back.
“Maybe I do,” she says.
Softer now.
Closer to something real.
Dangerous.
“Then stop.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t trust myself.
Because if I start—
I won’t stop.
“This doesn’t end well,” I say instead.
A faint, almost sad smile touches her lips.
“It didn’t end at all.”
That hits harder than anything else.
My hand lifts before I think about it.
Stops just short of her face.
Last chance.
I don’t take it.
My fingers brush her jaw.
Her breath breaks.
Real.
“You should walk away,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
That’s it.
Everything we didn’t say.
Everything we didn’t finish—
it snaps.
I kiss her.
No hesitation.
No control.
It’s rough, immediate—like I’ve been holding it back too long and don’t know how to do anything but take it.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
Not resisting.
Matching me.
That’s what gets me.
Not the kiss.
Not the moment.
Her.
Meeting me like she’s been waiting for this too.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her there as the kiss deepens.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Her breath breaks against mine.
For a second—
just a second—
I press my forehead to hers.
Breathing hard.
Thinking—
I shouldn’t have done that.
Then she pulls me back in.
And whatever control I had left—
is gone.